


A Selection of Statements Given to the Magnus Archives

by buzzbuzz34



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bugs & Insects, Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Death, Drowning, Horror, Psychological Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 05:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buzzbuzz34/pseuds/buzzbuzz34
Summary: A collection of statements found within the Archives of the Magnus Institute, London.  Recorded by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.





	1. Trapdoor

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at writing some statements and the follow up commentary myself. I have several ideas, and I'm sure more will pop up over time, so I'm going to post them all here, in one series.

_Statement of Konrad Ogden, regarding his experiences with a trapdoor in his house.  Original statement dated 14th January, 2002.  Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London._

_Statement Begins._

If you’re reading this, then I’m probably already gone.  Whatever you do, don’t go down the trapdoor.

I can’t even tell you when it started.  It seems like years, but it could have only been a few weeks.  I started to remodel my house.  I wanted to replace the decaying carpet with a nice hardwood that accented the exposed beams in the ceiling.  I’d finished ripping up the carpet and decided to take a break; placing the wood could wait until morning. 

But when I walked back down the hallway, there was something on the floor that had not been there before.  It was a small trapdoor, with a big metal ring like you see in movies and castles. 

I swear, it was _not_ there before.  No matter how tired or dehydrated I might have gotten from the remodeling work, I would have known if a bloody medieval oubliette was right in front of the door to the loo. 

So, I opened the door.  It was dark, obviously.  I propped the door open with the rolls of carpet so that it couldn’t swing back down on top of me.  Armed with a torch and a roll of twine, I jumped down into the darkness. 

My light barely illuminated anything in the stale oblivion.  I tied the twine to the top of the ladder and tugged it along behind me so that I would be able to find my way out.  I’m not sure why I expected it to lead into more than just a random cellar chamber I hadn’t noticed before, but I didn’t want to get lost, whatever I found.  There were twists and turns like a labyrinth, that muddled my senses around me.  The darkness alone did a good enough job of that already, on top of the whispering noises that echoed at the edge of my hearing and the faint sound of footsteps that were not my own. 

They always say that if you’re stuck in a maze, keep picking the same direction and you’ll eventually get out.  I started by going right, and I kept with it.  I didn’t know where I might get out to, but the tunnels were clearly larger than the footprint of my house. 

Too focused on my surroundings and the silhouette in my light from just around the corner, I barely noticed when my twine lead grew taught.  Calling out for the person down there with me, telling them to come to the light because they could follow me to the exit, there was no response.  I could come back with more resources, more rope, and a stronger light.  So, I set down the twine and followed the rest back to the entrance. 

But the trapdoor wasn’t there.  The creaking wooden rungs of the ladder were, pressed up against the now chilly stone walls, but the door was gone.  At first, I assumed it had somehow fallen closed despite the carpet rolls keeping it from doing so, but, examining it with the light, it was clear that the ceiling was solid, unending stone. 

How could I have gotten it wrong?  The lead was my own and I’d followed my tracks exactly. 

Not knowing what else to do, I followed the twine back into the tunnels, hoping to find some other upward exit I’d missed before.  Maybe it would lead into a neighbor’s house, or up a manhole cover down the street.  It didn’t matter where it let out, as long as it _did_ somewhere. 

I’d almost reached the end of the rope again when the same shadowy silhouette was illuminated at the end of that particular passage. 

“Hello?”  I called out.  “I’m lost, can you help?  We can figure out how to get out of here.” 

My light flickered, and the shadow seemed a touch larger than it did before.  However, when my torch got its act together, there was another ladder to the right, the faint light of sundown shining in through an open trapdoor. 

I climbed it quickly and slammed the door shut behind me.  I piled the dead carpet and anything else I could find on top of it. 

I needed a drink, so I headed into the kitchen.  But something was… off.  It was like I was in an exact replica of my house, but it wasn’t _my_ house.  All of the details were there, the kitschy magnets on the fridge, the scrape on the dishwasher, the haphazard pile of dishes in the sink… but it didn’t feel right.  The shots of whiskey were enough to almost shove that feeling from my mind, but it lingered as I crawled into a bed that was not my own. 

I woke up the next day, ready to keep remodeling, the tunnels and trapdoors and shadows almost forgotten in my hangover.  But as I stepped into the hallway, there was the trapdoor again, open and beckoning. 

My twine lead from the day before was still there, tied to the ladder I had only descended, never ascended.  I didn’t have any more proper rope, so I threw some tied-together extension cords into a backpack to keep marking my way, along with a few more torches and some snacks.  Then, I ventured back into the darkness.

This routine repeated for several days.  I would head down into the tunnels, marking my way with an impromptu rope, only for the trapdoor to not be where it should be at the end. 

I saw the silhouette every day as well.  Each time, they seemed to be getting closer, and they only really moved when my torch flickered to illuminate the exit.  At first, I thought it was some other poor sod, lost and stuck in tunnels that shouldn’t exist, but now… I don’t know what it is.  The limbs are too long and the way its neck twists doesn’t seem… possible.  But the trapdoor appears just in time for me to escape before it can get any closer. 

I have not been back to my house since I left it the first time I went down the trapdoor.  Not _my_ house.  Only into the replica meant to impersonate what is meant to be infinitely safe and infallible.   

For a time, I tried to ignore the door.  When I realized that there seemed no other exit other than that which appeared to me randomly as my trail ended, I decided to abandon exploring the tunnels.  I put down the hardwood I’d so craved atop it, nailed the pieces in place and everything seemed proper and good and normal. 

Until the next morning.  The wood had been ripped up around the door.  Narrow claw marks were visible in the surrounding floorboards.  Attempting to patch up the damage did nothing, as the door just kept reappearing each day. 

The reason I’m writing this now is because I went into the tunnels again.  It seemed the same as usual, until the shadow appeared.  The silhouette looked like teeth.  An open jaw, lines of teeth bordering the ceiling and floor, and I was set to walk directly into the path of its gaping maw, for the teeth to clamp down on me and snap my body in twain.  My light flickered as it so often did, but when it returned, there was no silhouette.  And as I climbed the newly opened trapdoor into the house that was not my own, I could tell that I was not alone. 

I’m not sure how anyone will get this note.  Maybe the neighbors got worried enough that I haven’t been seen leaving the house at all and have called the police.  Or maybe Mum decided to come pay me a visit since she hasn’t heard from me in a while.  Whoever you are reading this, get out now.  And don’t go down the trapdoor or it will get you too. 

_Statement ends._

_This letter was found at the entrance to Mr. Ogden’s house when police came to check on him.  He was correct that the neighbors did eventually call the emergency services when it had been several weeks since they had last seen him.  In the police report, there is no sign of a trapdoor as indicated in this document, only a freshly remodeled wooden floor in the hallway._

_I think it is safe to assume that the Spiral has Mr. Ogden now.  Between the silhouette with bizarre limbs and a chamber of twisting passages that shouldn’t exist, the signs are pretty clear.  Mr. Ogden hasn’t been seen since the few weeks before the police forced their way into his house to look for him.  Perhaps we’ll see him at some point.  The Distortion has already changed from Michael to Helen.  Who knows how many others are stuck in there?  Wandering impossible mazes in places that shouldn’t exist.  How many forms has it had before?  How many more will it have?  I don’t know.  I’m not sure I want to._

_End Recording._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Check out more of my writing at kellanswritingblog.tumblr.com or come chat on my personal, moirasberet.tumblr.com <3


	2. The Crack of a Whip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Mordecai Urias, regarding… a divine intervention while living in a religious commune. Original statement dated 18th March, 2008. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

_Statement Begins._

From the outside, I’m sure we looked like radical zealots, but living off the grid proved an excellent way to get in touch with your God.  No distractions, no ideas, only faith.  Only following like sheep to obey He who controlled all. 

I would do anything for the father who watched over our mortal forms and provided us the insight we needed to prepare for the beyond, when our service to the Lord would be rewarded and fulfilled.  He knew best.  When he bid us pray, we prayed.  When he bid us eat, we ate.  We existed at his whim and reveled in it for he would lead us to God. 

As blessed as our faith, our transgressions were punished harshly.  All was fair, of course.  To go against our community and our Holy Beliefs deserved nothing but cruelty.  The first time I received a lashing I was still young and naïve, prone to fits of untoward questions and dangerous pranks.  It hurt.  But something about it did not force me to good behavior as was expected.  A few lashings, and most others knew better than to step out of line and grew up real fast.  But as the whip first hit my flesh, I became something more than all of that.

Not that I knew it at first, of course.  I just thought I had a higher pain tolerance.  A few more childish misgivings and a few more lashings, enough to tear through my skin and leave the most garish and wonderous scars.  It wasn’t long before I was acting out simply for the sake of feeling the thin leather lacing through my body and cutting my skin to ribbons with the flick of a wrist.  I didn’t do it to disobey my faith, no.  I did it to experience ecstasy and true transcendence.

It took longer than it probably should have for me to realize that I didn’t need the father to administer this divine perfection of pain.  I tried to craft my own flails with rope, but they didn’t have quite the same sting about them.  I cut down the leather from a halter for our horses, and it served quite well.  In the rare moments I got alone, out in the fields, I would release myself from my worldly qualms and relish in the oozing sting as my flesh sliced open. 

If I could do this on my own, why not do more?  Laying atop barbed wire didn’t have quite the same climactic effect, but it was a nice break for my back.  Driving a nail through my hand had too many negative side effects amongst the commune and my own activities, so I didn’t do that again.  Cutting myself was good in a pinch, especially when I dug in with my knife and drew circles and other designs from a power greater than any I had ever known. 

My skin became a canvas to that power, etched in scars and burns and bruises that I joyously inflicted upon myself.  The God I had once beseeched was dwarfed by this new deity that exists in every one of us.  And I would show all the wonder I had realized. 

I started with my bunkmates.  Seven other men, strapped down in their beds while they slept.  They cried out to me, begged me not to hurt them. 

“I’m here to save you,” I told them.  “But first, you will have to hurt.”

I started with the whips I’d made for myself.  They all screamed and cried, as if they couldn’t see past their physical manifestations of pain.  Their flesh was but a vessel for something greater, something that savored as I tore away bit after bit. 

I made sure not to kill any of them.  That wasn’t the point.  The point was to move past their silly superstitions and see what I had seen, feel what I had felt.  I wanted to help them. 

The father prayed at me.  Whispered catechisms from a book I’d once worshiped.  He was the only one who died at my hand.  And it whet my appetite to watch the blood drain from so many open wounds.  I’d worked so hard to spread the word, surely I deserved a reprieve, a reward for my good deeds?

My new deity bid me drink from his veins until I was full and refreshed.  Ready to continue serving it. 

And serve I shall.  All will share in the glory I have experienced.  Every time I cleave flesh from bone and drink of the supplicants’ blood, I worship the only god there is.

There are no nonbelievers to pain.  Every living being experiences it.  The red-hot iron, the stabbing, the sickness, the blunt crack of bone.  It is a testament to my god and I worship at its altar as I spread its word in screams and the crack of a whip. 

_End Statement_

_Well… that is… quite a lot.  Melanie did some follow up, and she confirmed the existence of an isolated community where devout Christians lived.  They farmed and provided almost everything that they needed to survive without having to mingle with nonbelievers.  However, items such as machinery and occasionally food during the winter months required trade with a nearby village.  When no one appeared from the commune to pick up an order, a concerned citizen called the police._

_The police officers sent to the scene found… essentially what was described here.  There were half a dozen cabins with approximately eight people living in each.  All of them had been strapped to their beds and gagged before… being tortured.  Some suffered mostly from slashing, likely from a whip as indicated above.  Others had almost every bone in their body broken, and others… had limbs removed in jagged and haphazard ways.  It was often a mixture of techniques, and almost all of them were dead.  A few were still alive, struggling against their bonds for the couple days before the police showed up and got them to hospital._

_Those who made it this far appear to have all made sufficient recoveries and have transitioned back into normal society.  While they were receiving medical care, however, they are all reported to have rambled about a light.  A red light.  That dripped with a viscous liquid and pulsed and beat and shifted and squeezed around them._

_Mr. Urias was listed as a resident of this commune since his birth, though he was not found among the survivors or the deceased and has not been seen since.  Although, records of the occasional series of beatings and flagellations in religious communities or isolated towns indicate that he is likely still out there, spreading his ‘religion’ and providing sacrifices for The Flesh, sharing the word of this blood-red light._

_End Recording._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Check out more of my writing at kellanswritingblog.tumblr.com or come chat on my personal, moirasberet.tumblr.com <3


	3. Honeycomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Silvia Conti, regarding her experiences with a beehive outside her family home.  Original statement given 2nd October, 2016.  Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

_Statement Begins._

There was always a beehive outside my house.  It was on the back porch, and my family didn’t use that area much, so we didn’t pay it much mind.  As long as we gave the bees enough space, they were as content to leave us alone as well, just maintaining their small home of lacing catacombs. 

I visited that house often while I was in college.  Or university over here, I think you say?  In the States it's college.  Either way, it was only a short drive from campus and, as my father’s health deteriorated, it was necessary for me to come visit every weekend, if not during the week as well.  My studies didn’t suffer much; as an undeclared major, the haphazard collection of classes I was required to take proved none too difficult.

We both liked to watch the bees that buzzed outside the window every summer.  Though one or two might enter in through an open window, they were eager enough to head back outside with a little persuasion, rarely putting up a fight.  At least, until the summer before my sophomore year of college.  Or second year.  Or whatever you want to call it over here.  I’d spent the week camping with some friends and my… I guess, girlfriend?  It doesn’t matter.  What matters is, that despite my father’s protestations that he would be alright without me for a week, he might be old, but he could still take care of himself, you know how it is… when I came home, everything was still.  A quiet hum led me into the living room, where I found my father. 

I found him sat in his favorite armchair.  At first, I thought he was just sleeping, or ‘resting his eyes’ as he would always say.  I called out to him, but there was no response, just a gentle buzz. 

It was hardly the strangest noise he’d made while snoring, though the fact that there were no interruptions for him to take breath did seem a bit strange, looking back on it.  At the time, I just put down my things and turned on the light when he continued to not respond to me trying to wake him up.  I called to him gently and then even started yelling when there was no sign of him waking.   

The light revealed hundreds of insects crawling all over him.  They looked, at first, like the bees we’d so often watched outside our window, those that had claimed the space under an outside lamp as their home.  But these were different.  The moment I turned on the light, the quiet buzzing stopped.  Everything was silent and I could swear that each little bug was watching me, reflected a thousand times in their mosaic eyes. 

These were not the bees I knew. 

I ran.  I ran outside, where there were only mosquitoes and gnats in the night air to pester me.  I called 911.  I didn’t know how to deal with this, but my father needed medical attention.  I was sure to tell the contact over the line that there was swarm of bees all over him, and the responders should be sure to take the appropriate precautions. 

He was already dead when the ambulance got there.  I could only hope he’d been dead before the bees had crawled into his eyes and his mouth.  Before they’d started to nest in his skin.  Before they dug into his flesh to create another morbid home of hexagonal halls. 

It was a while before I found myself strong enough to go back into that house.  Though exterminators and fumigators had said the area was clear, that there were no bees or any other insect to be found, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  When I finally did, a week after each last embedded bee was removed from my father's skin and the coroner allowed me to bury him, I hesitated by the light switch. 

I turned it on.  My father’s armchair was gone, removed as part of the exterminating process.  Nothing moved, and all was silent.  I stepped over to the window where we would always watch the bees, and there was nothing. 

I let out a breath I’d been holding for far too long and set my hands on the windowsill.  Something soft brushed against my fingers, and I looked down. 

There was a bee.  And I could swear that it was looking at me, matching my gaze, daring me to brush it away.  Its abdomen was almost… grey, not the usual yellow orange.  But the eyes… I couldn’t look away.  I couldn’t even try and find something to brush it off with, a newspaper or a magazine that could be used as a weapon if it attempted to swarm me as it had my father.  I just stared at myself, reflected a hundred ways, in the eyes of the insect. 

And then it flew away.  It didn’t sting me, I swear that.  But the area where it sat got red and infected and now there’s a little divot there.  Doctors bandaged me up, gave me some antibiotics, and sent me on my way. 

Came to London a week later.  I have a cousin here, and she insisted I come stay with her before my next semester starts.  Change of pace, get out of that house, you know.  Whatever people think will help deal with the grief.  I heard about you guys shortly after, and my cousin said I should come give a statement, or whatever.  Doesn’t seem very paranormal to me.  Just a weird, freak bee attack.  Don’t know.  Maybe it’ll help to get it all down on paper?  I’ve already written almost everything out anyway, might as well wrap it up. 

Despite everything, I still like bees.  A new nest was built outside the back porch on my family home.  I’m not sure if they’re the same bees that killed my father, or a new set.  But they still buzz around the window and I watch their dance, the hypnotic motion of their life. 

I got an email from my college last night, asking if I’d made a decision on my major.  They would need me to at least pick a particular area of study before I started up again.  It came to me loud and clear as I shut off the living room light before I headed to bed.  I’m going to study entomology.  I can still hear their buzzing.  It’s quiet, but it hasn’t been silent since that one bee crawled up my arm.  Just a faint hum, to remind me I’m not alone in the winding hexagonal catacombs of life. 

_Statement Ends._

_On its own, I would be inclined to agree with Ms. Conti as to the supernatural relevance of this statement.  It bears no similarity to the activities of the late Jane Prentiss and, though it could be influenced by the entity known as the Corruption, or the Hive, it seems independent of such powers.  However, Basira did some digging, and found three other reported incidents of beehives suddenly changing their behavior to attack and kill those nearby.  One such individual, a Mr. Gideon Lund, managed to survive the attack, though he lost his eyes and part of his tongue.  When contacted for more information, he could barely say anything more than vague mumbles about the buzzing hum that wouldn’t go away._

_Ms. Conti answered our calls for a follow up, but she has returned to America and continued her studies at university.  Pursuing a degree in… entomology.  And she too professed to still hearing the buzz of the swarm._

_I’m not sure what to do with this right now.  Could potentially be valuable and have some veracity to it, but for now?  I believe we can set it aside.  Perhaps its usefulness will become apparent in the future.  For now, I think I will ask Elias to have someone take care of the beehive that is continuing to grow outside the back entrance.  While the opportunities I get for a smoke break are growing scarcer, I would rather not stare down the possibility of being swarmed in a rare moment of reprieve._

_End Recording._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Check out more of my writing at kellanswritingblog.tumblr.com or come chat on my personal, moirasberet.tumblr.com <3


	4. Stopwatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Arsène Gauvain, regarding his experience as the victim of a teenage prank. Original statement given 13th September, 2003. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

_Statement Begins._

We were just kids, you know.  One of my friends, his dads owned a funeral home and they lived right next door to it.  I say friend.  He was more of a novelty.  Going over to his house was always exciting, and I always hoped I might see a corpse or some dark place where they prepared the bodies.  I didn’t know how embalming and all that worked.  I guess I assumed there would be mummification type procedures, with brains and guts in buckets strewn about.  Obviously, there wasn’t.  It was a nice house and Gregor was a nice kid. 

He only threw a sleepover one time.  That was particularly exciting.  We were all maybe fourteen or fifteen?  And spending the night next to a funeral home had all the guests hoping we might see a zombie or some kind of flesh monster or even a ghost, though we’d all claim we were smart enough to not believe in ghosts. 

I’m not sure why they had caskets in the basement, but given their profession and proximity to their workplace, it didn’t seem too out of the ordinary.  And, naturally, we all wanted to climb in them.  Nobody sought to close the lid though. 

While I was inside a casket, one of my other friends dared me that I couldn’t stay inside with the lid shut for ten minutes without getting scared.  So, in exchange for said friend’s slice of birthday cake, I decided to take that bet.  The top was shut, and I was alone in darkness. 

At first it wasn’t bad, a little surreal maybe.  I couldn’t hear my friends outside, but perhaps that was a side effect from the surprisingly comfortable padding on which I rested.  I almost considered putting my sleeping bag in there later instead of having to sleep on the hard floor.  The only light came when I hit a button on my watch and the face would cast a tiny amount of illumination.

But then, as teenage boys most often do, I got bored.  I knocked on the lid to try and get someone’s attention, to ask them how long I had left.  I wasn’t scared, I just wanted to know how much longer until I got an extra slice of cake.

Nobody answered.  Spoooooky, huh?  No, it didn’t freak me out at all, really.  They were just being dumb, or maybe they hadn’t heard me knock?  I tried again - still no response. 

I figured ten minutes were up, so I decided to just get out with my best Frankenstein impression.  Frankenstein’s monster.  Whatever. 

But the lid wouldn’t budge. 

Those jokers must have put something on top of it so that I wouldn’t be able to get out, and then they left me there until I cracked or until they decided that maybe it had gone on long enough.  I admired their dedication, even if I recoiled at the fact the prank had been pulled on _me_. 

I continued to wait, and wait, and wait.  I had no idea how long I’d been in there at this point, but it had definitely been more than ten minutes.  My watch stopped keeping time and the digital numbers flashed randomly, but it still lit up when I needed an optimistic glow.  I know I slept at some point.  If they were going to lock me in there, I might as well get some rest without the fear of someone drawing on my face or sticking my hand in cold water while I slept.  And, like I said, it was surprisingly comfortable. 

The biggest concern was that I had to use the toilet.  I did _not_ want to be known as the kid that peed himself in a coffin, because that rumor would go up like wildfire.  I pounded on the lid and cried for somebody to let me out, but there was still no response. 

Instead, every time my fist collided with the lid, dirt fell inside.  Not from the edge, but from the entire ceiling.  I coughed and spluttered until I got it out of my face, then hit the lid again.  More dirt. 

Now I was finally starting to get weirded out.  Gregor hadn’t seemed totally on-board with this dare, so I doubted he had the wherewithal to plan ahead and put dirt in the lid for when the victim eventually begged to be let out. 

I did eventually have to pee.  There was nothing I could do.  And time continued to tick on, tracked only by a small stream of dirt that I could hear flowing by my feet.  I didn’t want to turn on my watch light.  I didn’t want to see it. 

But I did.  Dirt was trickling in and started to wrap itself around the lower part of my body.  I panicked. 

I hit the lid with all my strength, screaming for somebody to let me out, I was done, I was _scared_ , they could tell everyone, I didn’t care.  There was still no response, except for another steady stream of soil to appear above my head.  The dirt didn’t flow quickly, but it was fast enough that it would eventually fill the coffin around me.  And when I tried to stopper the current, another stream took its place.  It was like an hourglass, and time was running out. 

I know I prayed at some point.  I’d never been particularly religious, but maybe God could tell my parents I loved them, that I was sorry for having been so mean and for not cleaning my room when they asked. 

I never expected to get a reply.

I cried for someone to help me; I wanted to go home. 

A voice that tickled in the back of my skull – or maybe that was just the dirt? – told me that I already was.  No matter where I went above ground, _this_ was home.  Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.  I was always welcome there, in the dirt.

It got me to stop crying.  It comforted me in some small way.  It seemed a piss poor way to die, but surely it wasn’t the _worst_ way to go. 

I think I was mostly unconscious when they dug me out.  I was dehydrated and starving and almost drowning in dirt.  The poor groundskeeper of the local cemetery noticed that a plot had been disturbed and found me inside, tucked away in the same casket I’d climbed into at Gregor’s house… three days earlier. 

My friends had no idea how I’d gotten into the empty burial plot, and nobody really believed that they could have carried me that far and buried me that well anyway.  It was chalked up to a prank gone wrong, boys will be boys, the usual.  We all know it wasn’t.  We know something else happened.  I know.

And I know that the voice in my head was right.  I’ll be back someday.  It is home, after all.

_Statement Ends._

_Mr. Gauvain was indeed dug out of a cemetery plot by the groundskeeper three days after the reported night of the sleepover at his friend Gregor Simyon’s house.  The reports taken by the police all confirm the beginning of the story as indicated here, that it was a boyish dare until something went wrong.  Mr. Gauvain’s friends claim that they left to get a snack and when they returned to release their accidental captor, the entire casket was gone.  The cemetery where it was found was located approximately four miles away.  One of Mr. Simyon’s fathers was present for the duration of the sleepover, and he confirms that the boys did not move the casket, and seconded the doubt that they’d be able to do such a thing at all._

_Two years ago, Mr. Gauvain was found drowned in a river near his house.  There was no indication of foul play, according to the police and the medical examiner.  Best they can guess, he just walked in and drowned himself._

_His body was interred at the same cemetery from where he was rescued as a teenager in 2003.  In the same plot.  I’m not sure what else I need to say about this.  The Buried always seeks to welcome its chosen home._

_End Recording._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Check out more of my writing at kellanswritingblog.tumblr.com or come chat on my personal, moirasberet.tumblr.com <3


End file.
